Arabella's Story Formerly Dancing into Darkness
by angelofnight
Summary: I have had so much trouble with the chapter that should follow the one now available. I need help and desperately. Please give advice to me.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Erik, the future Phantom of the Opera of this story. It is mainly Kay-based. And a wonderful author, Soignata, has been helping me a great deal in the revamping of this story. She is to thank for the boosted personality of Erik! Also, please note that the numbers interspersed throughout the story are footnote numbers that didn't work with the format of ffnet. Sorry about that.

It was an unusually warm day, for such an early spring morning. A clear blue sky allowed a white-hot sun to pour light down over the meadow filled with tents, wagons, people, animals, and small booths for games and food. It was a gypsy fair, like so many that had set up business before it. A nearby city would soon be swarming in for a day of unusual entertainment. But for now, the Romany – gypsies as city folk knew them - were busy enough simply setting up shop.

Although many of them were already up and about, there _were_ the stragglers who were only then waking up at mid-morning. One man, with long greasy black hair, tiredly stumbled from a tent to the back of the campsite. He wiped at brightly bloodshot eyes, smacking fat, dry lips together. Anyone could tell immediately he was hung over, and in a foul disposition.

"Arabella Lyberia!" The man turned to bellow over his shoulder towards the tent he'd just left. "_Bella_! Get your lazy ass up, and make our breakfast!"

Only an instant passed before a young woman – perhaps in her mid-teens, came nearly crawling from the tent. Thick ebony locks fell in full waves down to the middle of her back. A faint bruise shadowed her jaw, and another ringed each wrist. Like the older man, she was barely dressed. Yet, men barely needed to be dressed; where she wore a long dirty night shift. Huge amber-hued eyes peered around anxiously. The way she moved suggested at pain, and stiff muscles.

"Bella!" The man turned, deliberately bellowing once more directly into her ear. The girl jumped away instinctively, ignoring his little leer and chuckle.

"Yes, _Dadrus_1!" She agreed quickly. "Coffee and biscuits?"

As she moved about, building a small fire and preparing the light meal, another, older woman emerged from the tent. Swollen eyes gave signs of a restless night, just as the other two showed signs of it. Her facial features were clearly similar to the girl, Arabella, only aged early by time. She was raising to her full height just in time to see the man reach out to lightly caress Arabella's hair in a strangely intimate manner as, in turn, the girl stiffened and leaned away.

"Yaakov!" The woman snapped. "Of all places! Get back inside the tent, and wait for your coffee!" She looked about anxiously; hoping no one nearby had seen the indecent caress. The man Yaakov simply turned to pull her into his arms.

"Well, it's about time I found _someone _that can do what you won't." He sneered. "Stop falling asleep before it's time. Be a wife to your husband, Noleta."

"Dog." Noleta slapped his shoulder, but the anger had drained out of her. "_Av akai__2. _Come inside, and let her get to the chores before the crowds arrive."

He grinned, a frightening look, with the shark-like teeth in his mouth. Slowly, he drew his wife inside, forgetting about the younger girl.

Arabella made a face of disgust after the couple entering the tent. It was the same nearly every day. As the coffee boiled, and the biscuits cooked, she examined her bruises in a broken hand mirror. At least this one could be hidden under the right make up. Bruised performers were bad for business.

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A gypsy fair was an event settled, "polite" society attended with cautious excitement. Gypsies were outsiders, thieves, dogs, the lowest of the low. Police often patrolled the isles of entertainment, carefully observing the outcast visitors for any signs of mischief. But the simple curiosity of the city folk was so overwhelming, that _any_ strange, or criminal activity, taking place could not be solely blamed on the misfit gypsies.

No amount of initial trepidation could keep the crowds from herding like fascinated sheep. Small groups moved past and into booths to have their palms or fortunes read. Larger crowds packed into tents that read "Freaks", or other such vulgarly named attractions. Then, of course, there were peddlers of herbs, charms, and other supposedly mystical goods.

Interspersed through the fair, individual gypsies earned their own keep by singing, storytelling, breathing flames, and dancing. Each collected their earnings in tin cups, or hats, left on the ground. No one, even other gypsies, were let close enough to have any chance at theft.

It was of this final group that Arabella helped her family. With a tambourine in hand, she was richly dressed in a bright orange dress with red tassels. The tight bodice had off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a low cut neckline. Layered skirts flounced down near slender ankles and bare, shapely feet. Performance make-up covered the shadow on her jaw, and ribbons of silk adequately covered the ones on her wrists. Her dance was attracting nearly every wandering eye in the area, especially the eyes of gentlemen. Many pretended, however, not to look, as they had wives on their arms.

"Wonderful!" The gathered audience broke into exuberant applause. Coins flew through the air and into the tin jar near her feet. But even as Arabella collected her earnings, envious society women could be heard sneering, and scolding their men.

"Imagine it! A woman selling herself like that! Why … she's little more than a cheap harlot!"

"Darling, it's only dancing."

"If you can call _that_ dancing."

Arabella ignored these sneers with a secret smile. It stung to be called a harlot nearly every day. In fact, many called her much worse than that. But women were primarily the breadwinners in Romany society. Men only made money by exploiting freaks, trading horses, or through _totting__3_. Her father was a _groiéngero_4, but was usually too drunk to make a profit. Sighing heavily, she made her way to the family tent, intending to hide what she had earned. The tambourine was still in her hand.

"Bella! That was _wonderful!_"

The voice of another gypsy man made her back go straight and stiff with discomfort. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. But he was a member of the community, so she slowed her steps a little out of simple civility. In only a moment, a tall young man, with dark auburn hair and piercing oak-green eyes, ran up and took her shoulder. Arabella flinched from his grasp at once.

"You are supposed to be selling tickets at the tents." She said coolly. "Your _cáine_5 of an Uncle can't possibly be giving you a break, Adnah. Go and try actually _earning_ your keep for a change."

"Ouch!" Adnah turned bright red in embarrassment, but he was still laughing as though in on some joke with her. He did not notice how she shied from his grasp. "Easy, _fatâ _6. My brother is taking care of it. Why are you so mean to me all of the time, Bella?"

Arabella did not look at him once. Meeting his gaze only ever encouraged his cheap advances. She continued walking towards her tent, her step quickening once more. He was so tall, however, that he didn't even need to walk faster. It was a burden to have her annoying suitor be so capable of keeping up with her.

"Because, Adnah. You are a dog. A hound who pants after every last dancing _joovi_7 in this camp. Go after Jasmina. She likes you … though God alone knows why." She made certain to keep her body between her money and him as he began to try and walk closer to her than a moment before. As if he were hanging onto her every insulting word.

"_That tárfa__8 __?"_ He sneered. "I don't want her! She's gone into almost every man's tent!"

"Well, then, you have plenty in common. Don't you? _Jai avree__9 _Adnah." Arabella sighed as she pushed her way into the family tent. It was cooler than out in the sun, and she considered lying down on her pallet to rest. But there was already a formidable lump rising up from a nearby cot, a huge shadow of a demon from her own personal Hell.

"Well now. What have you brought me?"

Yaakov rose to his bulky height, little more than an intimidating black blob as her eyes fought to adjust to the dimness of the tent. A moment ago, she'd felt cool, though disgusted by Adnah's single touch. Now, a paralyzing cold soared through her veins. Slowly, she held out her bag of money. It felt as though every bit of blood inside of her were turning into pure ice. Yaakov snatched the bag away, and poured coins into his hands, some falling through his fingers and onto the ground at his feet.

"Is this it, you little _tárfa?_ He snarled. "Is this all you've made? You useless _copil_10!" He dropped the coins into the pockets of his breeches before looking over her alluring costume with a fresh sneer. She could hear some of the coins spill down his leg from an inner hole inside his pocket.

"I'll dance again." Arabella whispered timidly, desperately trying to keep her voice from cracking. "I'll get more money."

Adnah grabbed her arm just as she turned to leave hastily. The tambourine in her one hand clattered onto the ground. And she yelped in pain as her arm was nearly pulled out of it's socket. She whimpered as her father dragged her toward his cot.

"No, _tárfa._ You'll do _something_ useful for me today!"

1 Dadrus – Romany (gypsy) for "Father"

2 Av Akai – Romany (Gypsy) for "Come here"

3 rag and bone dealing

4 Horse dealer

5 Romanian for Dog/brute/hound/beast/doggie

6 Romanian for Lass/girl/miss/maiden ECT.

7 Roma for Woman

8 Romanian for Whore/slut/wretch ect.

9 Roma for Go Away

10 Romanian for Child


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - All right! One chapter down! Here's the next one! Again, footnotes may look weird. But we get to meet Erik in this one! Hope you don't mind really meeting him as a more expressive and recognizable personality in the NEXT chapter! Oh … and the French may be off, I apologize.

It wasn't every day she thanked God for making her part of a Romany tribe. She might only be a **_poshrat_**1, but it was enough. Her mother had eloped with the man Arabella called father, at a young age. Against all unspoken laws and traditions. A **_gorgio_** 2was never let into a community of Romany people, especially never men. But by the time Noleta's betrayal was discovered, Arabella had already been conceived. Her grandparents refused to disown their daughter, and thus Yaakov was let into the camp, but never was he accepted as a part of the inner circle of Romany family. That left Arabella open for his liking of young girls, especially once her mother began to age. But Yaakov did not dare to touch her core. Virgins could often make a good bride price from potential husbands in the tribe, and he was too greedy a man to forget such a possibility.

Unaware of how long she lay half conscious, Arabella sat up gingerly from the ground. Yaakov had left to see about his horses, and was not there to be angered by her movement. Glancing down at herself, she saw a tear in her costume that would be difficult to seamlessly repair.

"**_Monstru_**3! **_Motto_**4!" She hissed contemptuously. She despised how easily he made her fear him, and how easily it was to destroy any part of her, even such a thing as a costume. Pacing to her wardrobe, she quickly changed into a white blouse, and deep blue skirt. This outfit was much more severe than her costume had been, but would not be considered overly modest to the standards of city dwellers.

The sun was setting, casting a harsh orange glow over the meadow as she stepped outside. The crowds were thinning out with murmurs of the perils of being in a gypsy fair at nightfall. Few ever arrived, or stayed, after dark. Society was convinced that gypsies could robe them blind; so imagine how much easier that would be to do in the darkness and cover of night.

Arabella shook her head hearing such rumblings as she passed the customers. She alone had skill enough to rob them all blind right now, and leave them none the wiser. Yet she lacked the heart to do such a thing. She walked by a booth of supposedly enchanted charms on necklaces and the like which her mother ran, and into a tent advertising Tsifia: The All Seeing psychic.

As she stepped inside, it was immediately apparent that Tsifia was not serving a customer in that moment. The small tent space was occupied mostly by a large round table, on which sat several items that many supposed – or real – psychics used. A large crystal ball, surrounded by small burning, scented candles that made it appear to glow. Also, a deck of tarot cards sat wrapped in a sacred cloth towards the back of the table, directly in front of the – apparently – infamous Tsifia. She sat stooped over the table, staring intently at the intruder of the tent, over a vacant table left available to all customers.

Tsifia herself appeared to be around the same age as Noleta, but was in reality quite a few years older. They had the same dark hair and bone structure. Carefully arched eyebrows sat mysteriously over shockingly mint green eyes that stayed with you unblinkingly, silently. And the apparel of the fortune-teller was nothing less than mystical. She wore her hair up mostly covered in a scarf of deep purple, and a matching robe of the same purple, only bejeweled with cut-glass of different colors which reflected the light of the candles under the crystal ball.

"Good afternoon, Arabella."

"**_Bunica_**5." Arabella returned with a gentle, sincere smile as she moved around the table to kiss the old woman on the cheek before taking the seat opposite her. "How was your business today?"

The old woman smiled affectionately at her granddaughter and touched her hand briefly. The hands, now visible, seemed to be the only thing that showed off her age, as they were bent and gnarled with arthritis.

"Nothing too unusual for what I usually see these days." She stated softly, with a quiet sigh. "Ah, Bella, **_chav_**6, I wish that you would take up such things as this for me. My eyes are not as good as they once were. Lately my customers have been hearing nothing but false prophecies rather than the truth I used to see. I know you have the sight … you simply choose not to use it."

Arabella raised an eyebrow at her grandmother curiously, almost challengingly.

"How would you know what I see? The only thing I see are dreams of Yaakov dying."

"Hush, child!" Tsifia hissed at once, making a sign in the air to ward off evil spirits. "You wish to curse yourself by saying such things! Go on out of here now, before your words stain my business!"

Arabella laughed, refusing to move even though she knew her grandmother sincerely believed in curses and the impurity of both words and bodies. She leaned back in her chair casually, ignoring the pain in her back from being tossed onto the ground by her father earlier.

"I will not leave." She stated, affectionately mocking her grandmother. At once, the old woman's eyes softened, and she smiled a little in return. "You want it as much as I do. I intent to read the cards and see what fortune has in store for us."

"Don't you dare to read my fortune, child!" Tsifia warned, once again a little aggravated. It was almost completely unheard of for one gypsy to read the fortune of another. It was another thing that, apparently, was bad luck to do. "Read your own, but do not read mine!"

"No, **_Bunica_**." Arabella promised softly, reaching across the table and pulling the cloth wrapped Tarot cards towards her. "I will not read your fortune. It is my future I'm interested in. I think I may do something terribly evil if it does not tell me of good news soon."  
Tsifia shook her head with a heavy sigh, watching as her granddaughter lay out several cards in formation, all face down. Although she could not read other gypsies fortunes, she found herself intensely curious as to what the future held in store for Arabella. Her granddaughter was much beloved by her, and had been the pride and joy of her late husband the whole of her life. It was impossible not to love such a genuinely humane and compassionate soul as the one existing in the form of the half-breed girl.

"Oh! **_Bunica_**! It is the Devil card!"

Tsifia leaned forward to peer at the card, seeing her granddaughters' mixed emotions of excitement and trepidation.

"Perhaps this represents your father." She muttered softly, trying to amuse the young woman. "Perhaps you'd get your wish after all.

"Perhaps …" Arabella agreed softly, staring at the single card as she absent-mindedly turned over two others at once. She was opening her mouth to speak again when a shrill scream nearly erupted from across the meadow. Automatically Arabella had leaped out of her seat, nearly knocking it over onto the ground, and was disappearing out of the tent.

Arabella would have known the scream that came from across the fairgrounds anywhere. It belonged to a younger friend of hers, who only ever squealed in such a manner when she was in or near the tent advertising Freaks!

"Samara!" She ran to the mouth of the tent, putting her arms about the younger auburn-haired girl just as she emerged from it. "What did those **_dinilo _**7boys do to you this time? Was it Ingemar again?"

In the case of the "Freaks" on exhibition in this fair, many of them started their careers as little more than animals in cages. In some cases, though, the constant starvation and beatings of the masters they were held captive by broke their spirits. They became little more than puppets, who were allowed the freedom of being allowed tents of their own, food, and pitiful wages. They forgot what it was like to want to escape. In some cases, however, such a man or women did not break under the pressure, and was an escape risk; or they were dangerous to the other people around them. In the case of Ingemar, a mute dwarf who had been an exhibit in the fair for nearly as long as Arabella had lived, he had proven somewhat of a danger to pretty young girls. He was kept locked in a cage, but could sometimes grab hold of anyone that went too near him. Samara was a particular favorite of his. He never meant to hurt anyone, but for such a small man he didn't realize his own strength.

"No …" Samara was a trembling wreck as she lay her head onto Arabella's shoulder, her arms clutched tightly about her torso. "I can handle them. But I was giving a message to Sven. He has a new … a new _attraction._" The sound of a high sharp scream from inside made her jump. "He's the worst yet, Bella! The worst!"

Arabella moved away from Samara before the girl could continue her story of absolute horror and revulsion. Like many other people in the despicable race known as human beings, Samara was one of the herd who didn't realize just how _human_ the people in the freaks tent truly were, or at least could be. All her life, Arabella had been at least somewhat an outcast of her Romany tribe, because she was a half-breed. It had given her a very keen insight into just how the people in the freaks tent surely had to feel. How alone and unhappy, just as she felt. Because of that, she had taken it upon herself years before to try and do all she could to keep the people relatively safe and healthy, if not happy.

"Samara, go help my grandmother close up her tent for the night!" She ordered over her shoulder.

Arabella could not stand to know another human was being brutalized. Sven, the master of the freaks, and Adnah's uncle, was a savage bastard who took intense pleasure out of beating the very people that brought in his profits every time they set up a fair. She, herself, suffered enough by the hands of her very own father. Wasn't that enough suffering for humanity out of the whole world?

She had shoved her way into the tent, the coolness of the inside, and the darker interior, enveloping her all at once. Standing around, or wallowing in cages, the eyes of the other freaks of the tent turned to watch her. They watched her with familiarity, some even offering soft hellos to her by name. In her long, labored attempts to help them over the years, they had started to call her their avenging angel, although she hardly felt anywhere near heroic most of the time. It was very rare that Adnah or his uncle Sven even bothered to listen to her protests on their behalf.

"He's got a real good one this time." A miniature woman stepped out of the small crowd of people, snickering slightly up at Arabella. This was one of the few "Human oddities" that managed to have a scorn for the very same group of people that she was a part of. "I hope that you aren't too faint-hearted. This isn't your normal freak."

"Hush, Gloria." Arabella hissed softly, striding past her. She wanted to reach down and slap the woman's cheek, but didn't have the time. What a horrible twist on words to use. A normal freak! She worked her way into the back of the tent, where a small separate room had been created purely for the exhibition of the newest of acquired attractions. The cry that had startled Samara while telling Arabella of this new addition had been echoed several times in the lapse of a few seconds, and when she entered the back room, she understood why.

Adnah and Sven both stood in a cage with the door wide open behind them, standing over a rather small, almost pathetic figure which knelt sprawled in the center of it. The older man held an old wooden board in both hands, while Adnah carried a horse whip in his right hand, drawn back over his shoulder as though ready to strike. Already the creature in the center of the cage was bloody and bruised. The knowledge of the blood was what made Arabella finally realize exactly what Gloria had meant by her scathing comment.

It took a moment, but she finally focused her eyes to clearly see the newest attraction. He was barely more than a boy her own age, but one would never be able to tell that if it weren't for the tone quality of his voice; one that suggested age without it yet belonging to an adult. Rags of what had once been white silk hung from a skeletal frame. Tight skin was pulled over his skeleton and muscle structure like a drum, and was terrible discolored to the shade of a deathly pale grayness. What few hairs were on its scalp appeared to be dead as well, a weak ruddy color like that of ancient rust. And in a face that much resembled that of a skull all by itself, with little to speak of for a nose, tears fell from deep-set eyes of the purest liquid gold one could ever imagine.

As she watched, Sven swung his wooden board hard into the back of the boys left shoulder, making him yelp and sink to the floor of the dirty straw-scattered cage. He whimpered feebly, and began to curl his body into a tight fetal position, head lowering until his chin touched his heaving chest. Even as little more than a skeleton, the boy seemed overly tall for such a boyish cry, with wide strong shoulders that trembled with each sob escaping his non-existent lips.

"**_Non! Svp! Svp arrêt! Ne me blessez pas! Sv_** 8!"

Arabella, who had been unable to help her initial shock of the sight before her, finally found the strength to remember her purpose her when she heard the boy yelp again as a swift kick from Adnah landed in the center of his back. Her eyes hardened immediately and she rushed forward, seizing the bars of the cage that separated her from the three men.

"Adnah! Sven!" She shouted, anger rising in her once more. "**_'Chavaia_****_9_****_! Chilky, _****_10_****_ divio_****_11_** bastards! What do you think you're _doing_? You'll _kill_ him!"

Adnah looked up from the form lying on the floor, the whip still drawn back to his shoulder. He had yet to try and hurt the boy with it since she'd entered. His eyes were filled with a bloodlust that might have made her blood turn icy cold had she not already been so angry. They looked just like his Uncle's eyes did as he glared down at the form on the cage floor.

"Oh, Bella!" He greeted with a vicious bite to his voice. "Are we playing the _angel_ again? The bleeding heart?" Without looking down, his kicked out at the boy again, his foot landing on the inside of its knee. The boy himself continued to whimper and cry, although those gold eyes had turned up in Arabella's direction. "This little **_mulla_** 12 needs to be broken. It's dangerous."  
"They are all dangerous to you when you don't feel in control!" Arabella spat furiously. "He's in more than enough pain. Let him be!" her eyes turned to Adnah's Uncle as he lifted the board high up over his to deliver what would be a devastating blow. "_Sven! Enough!"_

Her biting tone reached the haze of bloodlust that Sven was obviously swimming in. With a growl, he turned to glare at her. Like Adnah, his stare nearly made her back away. But she was convinced that at least these two wouldn't dare hurt her. At least distracting them left the boy in peace for a moment.

"We are busy!" Sven snapped at her. "**_Jai avree_**13!"

The boy had managed to roll over slowly in this moment release from his tormentors. His head rolled uneasily, as though his neck or head were in agonizing pain. Those bright golden eyes met hers, and Arabella drew in a sharp breath. They were so eloquent … perfectly intelligent. By his single look of abject misery, she could translate almost exactly what he might be thinking.

"**_Aidez-moi_****_14_****_ …"_**

****Again, she found herself drawn in. Only this time, it was not the boys eyes that captured her attention. His voice, however weak and tear-strained it was, held a purity to it that befuddled her senses. It practically hypnotized her it was so perfect. And this boy had been screaming, crying. She could hardly imagine what he must sound like if he were calm and happy. And, although she spoke almost no French at all, she did recognize his words. His body language, his eyes, his voice, was all more than enough to translate his plea to her. Tearing from the trance he seemed to put her into, Arabella raised her eyes to Sven, who was waiting for her surrender.

"If you want him to live, to make you money at all, you have to stop." She said in a low, cold murmur. "Do you hear me, Sven? You will lose a profit if you do not stop beating him."

"If you want to help him so much, come back tonight and clean out his cage." Adnah offered, that sneer still on his face. Arabella did not even give him a glance. But she was listening. "If you're so compassionate, you won't mind crawling into a cage with a monster. _Will_ you?"

Arabella continued glaring at Sven.

"Tonight." She told him in a low hiss. "Agreed? I will take care of his needs, his cage … everything. But you have to stop beating him."

"No." Sven spat. "Get out of here, now! Come back tonight. Do what you want with him. But stay out of this!"

Arabella watched as the men, which had rather been predicted by her based on past experiences, turned their backs on her and began to rain down fresh blows onto the poor boy who was still staring up at her. She lowered her eyes to meet his again, once more drawn in by the agony she saw within them. He was still pleading with her, although suddenly he made absolutely no noise of pain whatsoever. Not even an audible grunt of agony. But he was still hurting. She could see it. Tears filled her eyes and she turned to lumber away.

There was still tonight.

1 **_Poshrat_**: Romany for Half-gypsy or half-blooded/half-reed

2 **_gorgio_**: A non gypsy

3 **_Monstru_**: Romanian for Monster

4 **_Motto_**: Romany for Drunk

5 **_Bunica_**: Romany for Grandmother

6 **_Chav_**: Romany endearment of the world Child.

7 **_Dinilo_**: Romany: Silly, stupid, idiot, a fool

8 **_Non! Svp! Svp arrêt! Ne me blessez pas! Sv_**: French: Not! Please! Please stop! Do not wound me! Please!

9 **_'Chavaia_**: Romany for Stop

10 **_Chilky_**: Romany - Dirty

11 **_Divio_**: Romany - Crazy

12 **_Mulla_**: Romany - Corpse

13 **_Jai avree_**: Romany – Go away

14 **_Aidez-moi_**: Help me.


	3. Chapter 3

Arabella grimaced even before re-entering the tent in which her grandmother was still slowly covering items, and stowing away some of the smaller, more portable items until business hours the following day. She could already hear Samara chattering in a much calmer, but still obviously scandalized tone about the deformed monster that was even now being brutally beaten in the freak tent.

" … The most hideous creature I've ever seen! Honestly! Even Michelle, the girl that died after that fire … she didn't look half so repulsive!"

Arabella reached out and viciously jerked aside the flap leading into the tent, allowing the still lowering sun to cast it's terrible, hell-fire orange light into the small space. Samara turned with a vague start, caught at playing with Tsifia's crystal ball and sitting in one of the vacant chairs when she should have been helping the old woman close for the evening. She blushed softly, looking away with a little bit of guilt. Yet Tsifia only raised a single eyebrow at her granddaughter, the right side of her mouth lifting even as the left side fell a little in a curiously ironic fashion.

"The Living Corpse?" She asked curiously. "Is that what they're to call this new one, Bella? The Living Corpse?"  
She shuddered, striding into the tent and lifting the crystal ball away from Samara's elegant little hands. The younger girl was very much her friend, as much a friend as she'd ever had before. Yet they still had their vast topics to disagree on, and the way Samara could just sit and watch a woman who had trouble standing on her own at times put away every item in the tent … or the way in which she spoke of a person that she was perfectly aware Arabella felt sympathy for, was one of the easiest ways to annoy her.

"I didn't pay attention to any of the signs around me." Arabella stated coolly. "I was paying attention to the blood falling out of a split lip. A welt on his back that a heavy wooden board left behind."

Samara shrank away from her tone, fully chastised. Her face turned an even brighter shade pink, and she stood to walk out of the tent swiftly. Arabella simply reached out to take her arm, and turned her back around.

"Fold up the chairs and put them in the corner." She ordered softly, gentling her tone with great effort. She wasn't so angry at Samara and how she could rattle off her horror of a man so severely deformed. She was simply _furious_ at Sven and Adnah for having no respect for any human lives other than their own. Moving forward she reached out to clean the tarot cards she'd left behind, and paused. She had left three of them face up.

The Devil. That was the card she'd seen before Samara's scream. But the other two made her gasp silently, reaching out to touch the cards reverently.

Death. That could mean so many things! It could represent the death of herself, of her poor grandmother, of her mother or vicious father. But now … with the realization that the boy she was so intent on helping was to be called, in a flash and flare way, Death, she wasn't so certain. She peered at it suspiciously a long moment before gathering it up with the first card, and then saw the other.

The Lovers.

She nearly dropped the cards all at once in silent denial. Yet she managed to keep her grip on the huge deck that her small hands wrapped about. No! She couldn't possibly have the card The Lovers! She deplored every man in camp, and it certainly wouldn't be like her to pay enough attention to the **_gorgio_** men who came into camp, or who she passed in the towns, to fall in love with anyone. It was impossible! She didn't feel that she could possibly ever open her heart when betrayal had been such an integral part of her life. Picking the card up, she shoved it hard into the center of the deck of cards, refusing to let it be anywhere near visible again. She looked up to see Samara and Tsifia staring at her in mild shock.

"What's the matter, dear?" Tsifia asked softly. "Did a prediction bother you?"

"No, **_bunica._**" She said swiftly, softly. "This is my life … I control my own fate. I will _not_ take such a silly thing to heart! The cards can't tell me anything … it's only you who can really see what might happen, not the cards."

Tsifia lifted that eyebrow at her once again, chuckling softly. Samara joined her, and soon Arabella was once more storming out of the tent to escape her self-inflicted embarrassment.

Two hours later, she was standing in the back room separate from the rest of the "Freak" tent that Sven owned. The night had brought on a chilly wind, so a thick wool shawl was simply draped over her shoulders to keep it from cutting straight through her. Sven had gone to his tent for the night, no doubt making intense plans for the following day when he meant to unveil his newest prize: The Living Corpse. It was Adnah who stood leaning casually against one corner of the boys cage, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down past his waist and his posture trying to show off a chest and stomach that could have used a great deal of work to be considered attractive by her standards. He was trying to look impressive, but instead he only looked like a scrawny worm. He had the heavy iron key to the padlock on the cage in his hand, flipping it up into the air and catching it several times as his eyes devoured her uncomfortably.

In the cage the boy had curled up into a fetal position; and in spite of obvious shivering from the cold, he appeared to be asleep. There was a pungent, sweet yet bitter, stench coming from around him, and Arabella noticed with great dismay that he'd become violently ill at some point during or after his beating. There was blood in what his body had regurgitated, and even that was mostly mucus. It seemed he'd had no food in him, which somehow helped save her, herself, from feeling sick at the sight and smell.

"The bucket and rag is next to the door." Adnah began softly as she finally gathered the nerve to approach him. He straightened from the corner of the cage, holding the key out to her. When she reached for it, he snickered and pulled it abruptly out of reach. She scowled immediately and took a step back.

"Are you giving me the key, or not?" She demanded. He only smirked as charmingly as he possibly could. A long moment passed before he finally dropped the key and walked towards the entrance.

"Remember to scream if he tries anything. Although I don't think he can move much right now."

"Pig!" She spat, even though he was only trying to bait her with his nonchalant approach to such brutality. Yet the instant he was gone she stooped to pick up the key. She wiped away the cold grass that had already formed nighttime frost on it, and then froze, feeling the eyes that had turned to lock on her.

Slowly, her own eyes lifted from the key in her hands, and trembled just a little as they met the square and intense gaze of the boy from the cage. He had not moved from where he lay curled up, but his gaze showed inner strength and rage as well as caution. He seemed to be glaring at her, although it was difficult to tell for certain with such a severely deformed face. She wondered if it was possible for it to have ever happened after he was born. It seemed doubtful. Gathering back up her compassion and courage, which had briefly been decimated by his hard look, she managed a tremulous smile.

"… **_Alo_** 1…" She offered softly. Then, more timidly, "**_Bonjour_**2… I … I am Arabella."

The boy still stared at her with those intense, huge pupils, which had dilated in order to take in as much light as possible from the dimly lit room. There was only a small lantern by the flap into the main tent, and nothing much else. The moonlight barely bled through the thick material of the shelter. Uneasily, Arabella touched her chest, indicating herself.

"Arabella … Bella …" She whispered, then held both hands out to him. "You?" She struggled to remember the bits and pieces of French her grandmother had taught her long ago, when she had been more interested in speaking to the customers that watched her dance. "**_Vous_**3?"

The boy turned sharply, although she could still see one glittering eye staring at her in sidelong, uneasy glances. She knew perfectly well that he didn't know or trust her. Yet the fact that she was even attempting to speak with him at all seemed to perk his curiosity.

"Erik." His voice was soft, like velvet now that he wasn't choking back sobs of pain and terror. Arabella felt gooseflesh rise up on her arms and the back of her neck, but in the most appealing of ways. His voice didn't horrify her at all. In fact, it held even more power to her than it had when he was in tears, pleading for mercy. **_Laissez-moi_**4!"

She flinched slightly as he turned his back to her, but decided it would be best if he was ignoring her while she tried to enter his cage. At least if he didn't pay attention to her, she didn't have to worry as much about that intense stare of his which unnerved her just as much as it seemed to appeal to her. He didn't look at her hateful or with disgust as many other people did. He was simply showing obvious distrust, with good reason. She reached out slowly and began to turn the key inside the large padlock.

At once, Erik was sitting bolt upright with an obvious grunt of pain, shrinking back into the farthest corner of his small prison and staring at her with huge eyes. It actually hurt, for once, to be stared at so warily. She'd never hurt a creature her entire life. Not even small animals when she'd been young and ignorant to what pain and death were.

"It's all right." She offered in a soft, soothing voice. Slowly she pointed towards the terrible mess at the bottom of his cage, using the other hand to lift a wet rag from the bucket next to her. "See? I'm only going to wash that up for you." She opened the cage slowly, a bit more wary now that he was facing her. She had thought he'd be in far too much pain to sit up, but he had. That could mean he had the strength to try and escape. She couldn't risk that one single thing. Sven, Adnah, and her father, would all be furious. She couldn't afford her father's anger.

"**_Séjour loin_**5!" He exclaimed, leaning hard back into the corner of his cage. His voice sounded terrified and angry at the exact same time. Yet he was showing a keen interest in the now opening doorway that could potentially give him his freedom. Arabella walked forward slowly on her knees, carefully maneuvering the bucket of water with her.

"It's all right." She implored him, still speaking in a soft, kind voice. "I don't want to hurt you, Erik. I just want to help." His eyes had widened slightly at the use of his name, but she knew she had not gotten through to him. "**_Je... aide... vous_**6."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Yet as Arabella gathered the wet rag into her hand and began to half concentrate on the task at hand, he seemed to grant her the most cautious amount of trust he could. His muscles relaxed, and he slumped in the corner, his head bowing so that he stared down at the rags that his clothes had become from the severe beating. Blood had dried onto open wounds, and even though she could not let herself reach out – he was much too much like a wild animal that would bite out of fear – she worried that he could get an infection.

It took several minutes before she began to realize he was drowsy, barely awake. Perhaps he had a concussion, or was simply very tired from the whole ordeal. Either was a logical possibility. She let her eyes stay on the smelly mess that she was trying to mop up longer and longer, soon forgetting that he could have been any threat at all. His eyes were closing, and his body relaxing, more and more each minute she remained.

Then it happened.

It was so simple, and so foolish. She had turned around to reach for another rag left lying on the floor outside the cage, as the one she'd been using was now of absolutely no use. Sloshing around what was left of the disgusting mess rather than soaking anymore of it up. And before she knew it, without even hearing him move, she felt a cold hand take the back of her neck in an iron, icy grip, pinning her hair against her and thereby pulling it taut. The roots at the base of her skull screamed in pain even as she felt herself shoved forward into the corner of the cage nearest her.

"No – please!" She barely even had time to gasp that out before there was a very brief pain against her right temple, and all went black.

Half standing over her, Erik stared down at the young woman he'd knocked unconscious. There were others nearby. He could not stay. Yet he couldn't help feeling sorry for what he had just done. He'd considered his options carefully, and this unarmed woman had been what was likely his only chance – ever – at escaping this terrible nightmare he'd found himself in.

But there wasn't time to be sorry now. He had to figure out how to escape. Looking around he realized it would actually be quite easy indeed to lift up the bottom of the tent wall, which, he knew instinctively, faced away from all other areas of the camp. He could crawl himself through that gap if he had the strength to lift it over his skull. Quickly he staggered over the body of the unconscious woman who'd only tried to clean up his shameful mess, and knelt by the wall.

His feet were disappearing outside of the tent when Adnah came back into the tent to see how things were going, and with a curse began screaming. Calling to the others in a language he did not know but a few words of. Words he'd learned in his short hours here. In a moment or two, they would all come after him. And as he struggled to stand on legs that were in agonizing pain in spite of his desperation, he realized just how badly he had misjudged himself. The woods were much farther away than he'd thought … or at least appeared to be in the dark. And they were already swarming around him from all different directions.

"**_Non …_**"

1 **_Alo_**: Romanian for Hello

2 **_Bonjour:_** French for Hello

3 **_Vous_**: French for You?

4**_ Laissez-moi_**: French for Leave me

5 **_Séjour loin_**: French for Stay away

6 **_Je … aide … vous_**: French for Me … help … you


End file.
